Asleep at the Wheel

This title is thought of primarily as the name of a country group originally from West Virginia, who's home has been Austin, TX for many years. I like the name better than their music, although their work in their genre is considered tops by many people. To the point, I have a fear of the existential condition related to this name, and also a deep dislike for those who assume authority way over their abilities, and insist on holding on "for dear life" in spite of their inadequacies.

My Father's bookkeeper, Max, rode a Harley-Davidson (45) up and down Central and Southern Calif. serving his clients. A be speckled, CPA type, he was known for an exploit which gives a different twist to the title of this piece. Having partied a little late, he had to make his way over the Ridge Route (Highway 99) after midnight in a attempt to reach a motel in Bakersfield so he could visit a client next morning. Half way down the grade or so it seems he went to sleep at the handlebars, crossed the double lines and exited on a smooth stretch of shoulder. A few hours later he woke up; having knocked himself out earlier, followed the trail of the scooter, got it on its' tires, and then made his way to the motel to get cleaned up and changed for his appointment.

My memory of a personal incident was in the sixties, returning to Venice from a three day family Love-in event in Marin County. Heavy partying and little sleep had not left me in the best of shape for the return VW bus trip with my friend, Tommy Morehead Sunday night. I decided to travel on a secondary road, two lane with very wide gravel shoulder, rather than risk it on the interstate. The VW had a tendency to pull to the center of the road, so in my semi-conscious state I ended up rolling along on the gravel. A stretch of washboard woke me and I decided to park it (call in with an excuse the next morning). Tommy never woke up and was a little surprised when I explained the existential predicament on the way in next morning.